As Loveless as the Lungless That Roam
by spittlepig
Summary: [The Recruit] ...Zack...


~  
sorry. i used a free translation for the portugese you see in this one, and i hold no doubt that it is completely wrong, so please don't be offended that i slaughtered your language. i was bitter when i wrote this because i missed "24" and i was also angry that there weren't any "The Recruit" stories out there, so here's a crap-ass piece to put out... i know this probably doesn't sound anything like the movie, but i didn't like how Zack was pushed to the background so much (k, so i'm a little biased towards Gabriel Macht) and I thought his character should get some limelight, even if it does make him look sick. thanks for not kicking me off ff.net. ananove crowe.  
~  
  
Fucking James Clayton.  
  
Fucking Layla Moore.  
  
And fucking Walter Burke.   
  
His chest still hurt and the bruises wouldn't dissipate for at least a couple of weeks, that's what the physician had said anyway. He'd been told to ice down his torso, but instead he'd gone back to his apartment and fired up his groin.  
  
"Receba seu como para cima!" The bitch got up and tore the covers along with her. She didn't speak a word of English, but he didn't care; you can still fuck without having a mutual language.  
  
He writhed in the sheets as the cold air hit him and he grabbed at the other blankets, gathering them around his naked body. Then the bitch came around and jerked the covers away from him again, slapping his thigh hard enough to leave a red welt.  
  
"Levante-se agora cadela!" She threw the sheets angrily to the floor, grabbing at the pillows as he tried to stuff them under his head. "Receba o fuck para cima e me pague! Estarei atrazado!"  
  
He was beaten by the string of nonsense she was practically screaming into his ear, "alright! ALRIGHT!" She had her hand out and her finger repeatedly jamming into her palm, he figured out what she wanted pretty quick.  
  
He'd been drunk last night, at least that was a nice memory he kept this morning, but not much else. He sat up and scooted off the side of the bed, fishing the floor for his shorts and pulling them on, snapping the elastic around the base of his waist.  
  
"Eu nao posso acreditaá-lo nao tem um despertador de fucking que realmente trabalha! Estarei em shit tão FUNDO se meu papai pega-me! Você fucking burro menino branco!" She yelled as she gathered up her clothes, fisting on her shin boots and slipping her tight red dress over her naked, thin body.  
  
She raked her hands through her long black hair once to style it before coming to him again. He'd fallen asleep sitting up, his head hanging towards the ground with his elbows on his knees.  
  
"Menino branco burro! Acha se um namorada." She bent down and grabbed his ankles, lifting his legs to throw him back into the bed, going to the bedside table and digging through his pants pockets.  
  
She grabbed out his wallet and pulled however much cash was stuffed inside, reaching down to grab his strong pain killers and twisted off the lid, dumping a couple into her hand and downing them without water before twisting the cap back on and shoving the bottle into her purse.  
  
Then, just to be a bitch, she grabbed the half-empty glass from the table and threw it at his face, drenching his head and his pillow.  
  
"What the fuck?!" He came up flailing, grabbing his pillow by the edge and chucked it hard at her. But she ducked down to fish through the disheveled room for her small black handbag, having to remove a boot from the top of it.  
  
She came back up just as the pillow hit the opposite door and she flung the boot hard at his head by its tongue, but the aim was off and it struck him right in the center of the huge green, black, and yellow bruising on his chest.  
  
"MOTHER FUCKER!" He screamed as he collapsed back on the bed twisting, clutching at his chest that felt like someone had just punched a pitchfork through his ribcage.   
  
"Serve-o direito você menino branco cadela Americana." She concluded as she turned and headed out the door, slamming it hard behind her.  
  
He lay in the fetal position for a while, waiting until the agony faded to a rhythmic pounding before deciding to move. He worked his way slowly back over towards the edge of the bed, his hot palm grazing his chest as he swung his legs back over the side.  
  
He sat there for a moment, cringing, before forcing himself up, his mouth open to curse, but never doing so. As he began to walk he found something stuck to his foot, smooth and sticky.  
  
"What the fu-?" he reached down and ripped it off the bottom of his toes, finding it to be a picture of Layla off to one side of the picture. The Polaroid looking like it was one a nervous stalker might take of his victim.  
  
He threw the picture to the side and it spun to the floor, slipping beneath his foldout bed. And he ran a hand through his hair, feeling grease from god knows where warping it.  
  
He stepped into the bathroom and flipped on the lights, flinching back at both the sudden brightness and his reflection.   
  
The bruise painted his top dark as did the bags under his eyes, his blonde hair was shaggy at best, sticking up everywhere. A hickey about the size of a silver dollar was wrapped around the side of his neck, and long, thin bruises in the shape of fingers tinted his hips where she'd grabbed him viciously.  
  
Of course he didn't remember any of it though. He didn't remember any of his nights anymore, only the mornings after.   
  
Thanks to fucking James Clayton.  
  
Fucking Layla Moore.  
  
And fucking Walter Burke.  
  
They'd all killed him at the train station three days ago and all Zack could remember now was the fucking mornings, all of them exactly like this. 


End file.
